Bad Blood
by SweetSamaritan
Summary: (Wincest) The lines have been drawn, but Sam and Dean have never been ones for fate. With the eyes of Heaven on their backs they make one final stand the only way they know how. One more sinful act of defiance. Together. Rated M (Mild) for use of language, sexual themes and situations. S5


_****__Rated M (Mild) for one use of language, sexual themes and situations. I do not own any of the characters._

_It is my soul that calls upon my name_

_How silver sweet sound lover's tongues by night_

_Like soft music to attending ears._

_- Shakespeare: Rome and Juliet - Act 2 Scene 2_

(.:.)

He was up him, inside him, wrapped around him so tight he couldn't breathe. There was no room to think or feel otherwise –everything was his brother.

The faces of the moon seemed foreign – alien. There was no God present that night, no guardian angels to protect the hopeless souls that wandered the earth in search of all that they found they lacked. Innocents – all of them, frightened of the dark. They had a right to be, the brothers knew that more than anyone. They were well versed in the art of the dark, well accustomed to the tricks and trails of shadowy things, exchanged narcissistic pleasantries with demonic creatures the likes of which civilians could only dream of. Their world walked the line between two separate plains of reality, boys dip diving into each when it suited them – more often than not when life was at its least convenient. But that was how their worlds worked, and they'd adapted pretty damn well to that.

Life continued to tick on around them, a slow mechanical movement that, to the Winchesters, seemed almost robotic. There was a predictability about civilian life that had never appealed, their blood singing for the unknown, the next corner so to speak, in a way others would not understand. Even they found themselves a little off track, sitting back to gather thoughts or sense, wondering at least once annually why on earth they continued on the road they'd been set on by their father. The doubt never lasted long, perhaps outlasting the snows of one state or another, the change of the leaves in the fall in Nebraska or the shedding of blossom in Iowa – but never long, never long enough for the doubt to settle and thus corrupt their simplistic ideals. The hunger would tug at their guts and that would be that. That was always that.

Love – love had been a part of these unpredictable phenomena that was life, this life they lead so blindly, so wholeheartedly. Throughout life love had been an unnamed concept, an anonymous theology that seemed ingrained rather than believed, an idea held at arm's length rather than internalised knowingly. But the boys had always been aware of its existence, knew it was possible. After Jessica it had tiptoed on the peripheries of their joined consciousness, a fluttering of feeling both brothers put down to shared interest and predicament, the adrenaline surge of a hunt, the warmth of a beer, the kiss of a woman's lips. But too often love was overlooked, for so long she went unseen and unheard. They hurt one another, harmed one another, held one another and felt her warmth but settled for less. Sam was led astray, Dean's eyes fell elsewhere and that was that.

But it was there, she was aware, and so she waited. In the end it seems love tends to prevail. Many say it is the Lord who works in mysterious ways, but it seemed to the boys that it was love, or the idea of love, that went about her business in a more complex manner. Who would have seen it coming save those who held them most dear, the greatest tragedy of all being the simple fact that none of the former were left to see the inevitable joining of these two halves as (as is with the luck of the Winchesters) all were dead and buried and had settled themselves rather comfortably into the embrace of memory.

"Dean-"

His brother's name, delectable, sweet, and entirely palatable as he rolled the word around on his tongue, breaths cut short and shallow – no time to waste on breathing. Sam revolved his eyes towards the spreading Heavens, face bathed in the light of that once foreign moon, words cursing and sullying the name of an even more foreign God. No, there was no God present that night nor his angelic choir to protect their hopeless souls but both boys found they couldn't find it within them to care. Their souls were burnt and charred by the heat of their own bodies, hope found in the hesitant touches of a lover's hand across a beating heart, delicate fingertips brushing fondly over tender flesh.

They were no longer strangers in the eyes of each other, beings mapped out so completely each crevice, bump and valley had been memorised and chartered like the constellations that stretched themselves like spiders overhead. Dean knew Sam knew the names of each one, the stars that made them and the meaning behind them; Sam knowing Dean hadn't a clue but that Orion was his favourite. But Dean knew the taste of his brother's skin as well as the colour of his eyes, the feel of his hair akin to the touch of his fingers whenever they found their way to his lips. His expertise in the art of his blood was almost damning, sinful to anyone who didn't understand that these boys, these brothers, were simply two parts of the same entity, a being that transcended the menial plain you and I walk but a being that stumbled and strode the lines marking both Heaven and Hell, two things they found not only in the world around them but also in each other. For Dean was jealous, possessive and stubborn beyond all reason, just as Sam was short tempered and too easy to trust. But their Heavens outweighed their Hells, and their Heavens only became blindingly apparent when they were in the company of the other.

And despite being damned – they'd accepted it. They no longer feared death having lived it more times than anyone should, wandering life's road without a beginning or an end. Therefore they found Heaven in each other, both no longer reliant on the empty promises of an absent Father. They relied purely on the love of the other, Dean still finding solace at the bottom of a bottle though the same sick sense of peace and promise came from his brother's body, lips that could kiss away fear, a mouth that could elicit prayers from the veteran hunter that no amount of preaching ever could. Sam was still a haunted shell of a human being, as was Dean we must bear in mind, but found himself fulfilled whenever he lay with his brother, his saviour. For that was what they were to one another – their own personal saviours, an endearing concept laced with sentiment on the surface but, if you are to look a little deeper beneath the sugary coating of this ideal, the tragedy that is their curse still flows unhindered. They are the saviour of their kin as, as we have seen, any other has yet to come to their aid.

"I got you Sam," he murmured, hands falling flat on his brother's abdomen, muscles humming beneath the soft touch of his fingers, "I got you baby boy."

A hunt – the basic test of this reliance, this erotic and sociopathic co-dependency. Victims fallen, bodies bloodied, bruised and broken, morals and boundaries worn tremendously thin. It was often at these points that the boys found themselves more open to temptation, exhaustion, adrenaline and a need to grasp something other than despair a concoction far more powerful than integrity or social convention. Wounds had to be treated, bodies stitched back together with needle and thread though often more therapeutic than the sting of a pin came the warmth of the other's breath, a petal light touch of lips against a gash that'd rip away the pain like Vicodin. That was how it usually began and it usually ended the same way.

Dean settled his brother against the hood of his car, blackened metal a pool of ink, Sam seeming to swim amongst the reflection, eyes catching the silver of the sky as he waited for his brother to re-envelop him. There was nothing save the night to encroach on their activity, no one around save the moon's many faces and the glistening light of the many blind eyes above to observe. He could feel pinpricks of sight on his back, the blank gazes of many billions of eyes settling between his shoulders as he draped himself up and around Sam's long limbs, skin sun-kissed and moon-drunk, muscle hard and tense beneath. The bite of the metal kept him grounded, cold chill rising up and making each shiver even though the tentative touches of their other already had them trembling. The boys shifted, Dean's hands entangling themselves in his brother's silken hair, Sam coming up to meet his brother's lowering body as he wrapped himself around him, heels of his feet settling in the small of his brother's back, Dean built to accommodate him as if by design.

When Dean peered down he found his brother's face swathed in darkness, angelic face no longer caressed by the light of the night, shifting shadow taking the place of that once ethereal glow. That heavenly innocence was also missing, replaced by an eerie eyed depth that had the elder of the two skipping a breath or two. This was Sam, bruised, battered, bloodied – eyes hooded and lips kiss swollen, cheekbones marred by dirt and by oil. Sam was also the boy with the lanky limbs and the mop of unruly hair, the kid with his head buried in books and in knowledge, the same man that could recite pi up to twenty places and the same sibling that feared the monsters under his bed. Dean had experienced, tasted, loved and lost each and every one whether or not it had been through death, through Stanford or simply through misunderstanding. But Sam was there, Sam was his and Sam was far more alive than he had ever seen him, embraced by night, embraced by him and so, so beautiful.

"So damn pretty Sam," he breathed thickly, fingertips tracing the outline of his brother's jaw, smiling shortly as he leaned into the touch.

Dean pressed his lips into the hollow of his brother's neck, nipped lightly at the flesh and ran his tongue over the area, salty tingle of sweat leaving the hunter needy – wanting. He explored the familiar terrain, one hand remaining in Sam's sweet hair, his other migrating south to bring their bodies closer. Dean smiled against his brother's skin as he felt Sam hum, sound low and heavy in the depths of his throat seeming to reverberate throughout the entirety of his chest. The palms of his hand came to settle cold and sharp against Sam's chest, eager to feel the sound, desperate to be shaken by the guttural noises his brother continued to make as Dean continued his explorations, keen to push him further. Sam's large hands came to settle on the back of Dean's head, fingers sporadically raking through his short hair. He tore his mouth away from Sam's skin to steal a glance, noted how the moon's light had cradled itself in the curvature of the exposed expanse of Sam's neck, head tilted, lips slightly parted in the formation of his name. His eyes were closed against the sky, eyelashes fluttering lightly against his cheeks like coal-blackened butterflies, skin kissed pink by heat, by cold and by the desire Dean could feel bubbling up from the very pits of his being. He smirked at the knowledge, returned his attentions to the warmth of his brother's skin, entirely content in sampling every inch.

"Dean – please."

Such a pretty mouth. Dean returned to it, missed the touch of his brother' lips, hands planting themselves either side of Sam's head as he lapped at it hungrily, Sam's tongue meeting him as their bodies continued to dent the hood of the Impala, Heavenly and star-studded reflections becoming works of abstract art as the mirror of metal became warped with brand new angles, unable to handle the shift of weight as Dean bared down on his brother, intentions highly unsavoury, will almost at breaking point. He couldn't get enough fast enough, wanted all or nothing at all. The closest was not close enough, his fullest not full enough and his best needed to exceed expectation.

Sweat cooled against his back, shoulder's tense as he rocked his body fully against his brother's, Dean losing his hold on his brother's lips as Sam's head fell back against the metal of the car, eyes tightly shut and blind. He dipped his head, forehead falling against Sam's heaving chest as he dared to move again, mind overcome, body buzzing, wave after wave of feeling washing away the pain of the hunt, the tension in his body, tearing the pain from his bruises. The weight of the eyes on his back seem to intensify, a billion witnesses to their sinful act, Dean's fall to temptation by the Boy King, the Boy with the Demon Blood. For Sam was a drug, addictive, a siren to every part of the Righteous Man no one else could seem to sing to. Dean hadn't even been aware of some of the pieces of his own soul before they'd been touched by his brother, dragged to the surface in their most intimate of moments, unaware he could even feel as he did unless it was wrapped up in _his_ Sam. You sought after that which would provide, something even the most basic of animals could grasp – and Sam never failed to provide.

Blasphemy was nothing new, a sin both boys had indulged in far more often than once. And to curse God – to use his name in vain when both he and his brother were made to be vessels, designed to accommodate his most perfect of beings seemed almost – well too perfect for words. Perhaps it was fitting that the two brothers, brothers who would accommodate enemies, should fuck each other under the stars and scream the name of God on bated breaths, hoarse shouts of the Holy Spirit interlaced with the most colourful of curses to fill the silence of the world around them - the emptiness of their own world as they brought it crashing down around them. You could say the Winchesters were experts at bringing the world to the ground and, unsurprisingly, they found both their bodies and their hearts more than willing to repeat the process.

"Come for me Sam – please," he murmured, teeth grazing the velvety skin of Sam's ear, nipping lightly at the cartilage.

Their movements against one another were slight, barely even registered. Sam's hair stuck thickly to his forehead, sweat covering his skin in a glistening sheen that made him meld with that of the Impala's hood, one bright mass of light that had Dean blind. His blood was hot, searing his veins, metallic taste on his tongue as he lapped at the underside of his brother's jaw, not sure if the blood that stained the skin was his own, Sam's or civilian. He could feel the hum of his brother's body beneath him, shattering him, unhinging him, Sam tight and warm around him and entirely wonderful. It was almost impossible – he couldn't hold on. He was losing it – losing his mind, wondered if he'd lost that a long time ago too.

"Dean-"

He sucked his mark somewhere between Sam's shoulder and collarbone, humming contentedly. "Come on Sammy – for me," he purred, unable to keep his pride at bay. "For me."

Sam managed to drag Dean back to him before he came completely undone, green meeting hazel as, forehead to forehead, they unravelled in each other's arms beneath the weight of the world. They had each other's names on their lips, filled the night with the sound of their voices, a choir unlike anything the Heaven's had heard before, the Lord and his angels entirely aware that this was aimed in their direction, that this act, no matter how sinful, was the brothers' last final stand in the face of all that was yet to come. They had accepted their fate yes, internalised and come to terms with the fact that a bright horizon was far too distant for either of them to ever reach but, along the way, they had found the love that had escaped them not long enough ago. She was pleased, content to be shared in such a way that had the Heavens reeling, had Hell jeering in the face of such adversity. In their special breed of love these two boys had found a plateau in which to fight for their lives, always aware of that second pair of eyes, that back to be had, that other fragment of their soul that would keep going until its dying day. There was no question about it – the fact that they'd leave that plain of reality together, travel either above or below hand in hand and give Hell or Heaven to whatever it was that threw itself in their way.

"For me," he whispered again, breath low, eyes hooded.

Sam was his drug, his addiction, just as Dean was Sam's saviour, his God. Dean's lips sucked the pain from his brother's body, Sam's tongue removing all trace of bad blood from his elder's skin as they lay together beneath the prying eyes of the Heavens, content enough to bask in Hell's heat as it continued to singe their skin wherever their touches came to fall, marks left where skin contacted skin. Humans were imperfect, sinful creatures, the bane of the existence of angels, leering and lustful in the eyes of perfection yet – when together, they _defined _perfection, defined the term _completion. _One without the other was a fate worse than death, something the two boys had come to terms with far more times than they cared to remember, but one without the other's love was impossible. They'd shared beds, shared bullets and both had stared down the barrel of the very same gun but together they shared a soul – a spirit far more precious than anything else in existence upon God's green earth.

They were one in the same, the Righteous Man and the Boy with the Demon Blood, creatures of kin with the same bad blood running through their veins. And they found that, at least for that moment, wrapped up as they were in each other's embrace and the comforting weight of the Heaven's above their heads, that they wouldn't have it any other way.

(.:.)

_We were young and drinking in the park_

_There was nowhere else to go_

_And you said you always had my back_

_Oh but how were we to know?_

_That these are the days that bind you, together, forever._

_And these little things define you, forever, forever. _

_All this bad blood here, won't you let it dry? _

_It's been cold for years, won't you let it lie? _

_- Bastille – Bad Blood_

_****__Please Review if you have time. Please and thank you._


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